21. Ruslan
21
RUSLAN
She’s still shaking as I press her back against the cool wall, her chest heaving, lips swollen from my kiss, pupils blown wide with the high I just gave her.
Her skin is flushed, damp with sweat, slick where our bodies met, and I want her again already.
But I don't move. Not yet. I want this image of her to be burned into my mind.
Tara, wild and wrecked and mine.
I trail my fingers down her side, then cup her face, and kiss her slowly, tasting the echo of her moans still lingering in her throat. Her fingers curl against my shoulder, soft now, like she’s too tired to resist.
But she’s watching me.
And she sees it now. The mask is gone.
No Damien. No smiles. No charming flirtation.
Just me.
Ruslan Dragunov.
She doesn’t flinch. She doesn't pull away.
I hook an arm under her thighs and lift her, carrying her into the bedroom.
Her head drops against my shoulder.
I can feel her pulse hammering at the base of her throat.
I lay her down gently on the bed.
Her hair fans out across the pillow.
For a moment, I just look at her—naked, still trembling, her legs falling open as I kneel between them.
She reaches for me, but I catch her wrists and press them down.
"You don't come until I say."
Her eyes widen, breath hitching. But she nods.
I grip her thighs, pull her to the edge of the bed, and spread her wider.
Her pussy glistens, dripping from how hard I just fucked her. She's flushed and swollen, twitching every time I breathe on her. I take my time. I drag my tongue over her inner thigh, slow and deliberate, and watch her writhe.
I don’t let her come. Not yet.
I pull away just before she shatters, again and again. Her moans turn to whimpers, her fists clenching, her voice breaking. I make her beg. I make her burn. I make her feel every fucking second of this.
Because she needs to understand.
She belongs to me now.
And I will ruin her for anyone else.
When she’s sobbing with need, pleading with her eyes, I finally give in. I pull her up, flip her over, and sink into her again from behind.
She cries out, her voice raw, desperate. I pin her arms behind her back, angle her hips just right, and drive into her until the bed rattles.
She comes so hard she screams. And this time it’s my name—Ruslan—that rips from her throat.
This time, I don’t pull out. I hold her in place, spill inside her, and stay there.
Her body collapses under mine. And I wrap my arms around her, drag her into the mess of blankets, and hold her against my chest.
She doesn’t speak. She just breathes.
I run my fingers through her hair until her breath evens out, and she drifts off, finally, in the circle of my arms.
I pull the blanket over us and kiss her temple.
"There’s nowhere for you to escape in the morning, my beautiful Tara."
She shifts slightly, barely awake.
"Tomorrow over breakfast, we’ll talk about Moscow."
She doesn’t reply.
I draw her closer, her back to my chest, and tuck her head beneath my chin.
I press my lips to her hair and whisper, just for her:
"Ya lyublyu tebya."
And I mean every word.
TARA
I stretch, limbs heavy and loose, the muscles in my thighs sore in the best way. My hand slides across the sheet, reaching for warmth, but the bed is empty. My eyes crack open. The room is dark. Not my cabin. The realization hits me like a slap. I didn’t dream last night. I really did just fuck Ruslan Dragunov.
I sit up, hair a mess, body aching. My bladder makes its demand known, so I tiptoe to the bathroom, bare-ass naked, and do what I need to. After washing my hands, I head to the kitchen, thirst clawing at my throat. The house is quiet, too quiet. I frown. Where the hell is he?
As I pass through the lounge, a sliver of light seeps out from a slightly open door. Then I hear his voice. Low. Steady. Russian. I creep closer, drawn like a moth to the flame, heart thudding with some primal warning.
My name. He says my name.
"Yes, she fell for it," Ruslan says, cool and casual. "I told you. I always get what the fuck I want. Now that she doesn’t believe she’s pregnant, I don’t pose a threat. The RMSAD won’t be a problem. Their Jewel belongs to me now."
Ice runs through my veins. I freeze, breath caught in my throat.
"Yes. What do you think? I said we were in this together. I’m warning you, don’t betray me. Everything is working just the way you planned. Let Irina think she’s fooled us. We’ll give her five months, see if the IVF takes. If not, we’ve got Plan B and C. Relax, the doctor’s on my payroll now. He’ll tell them what I want them to know."
The blood drains from my face.
"Of course I’m going to marry her. Not only is she the Jewel of Russia and the RMSAD’s most prized asset, she’s a Morozov. Her grandmother is Anya Novikov. Do you know what that will do for us? Plus her grandfather controls the Dragunov Guard. We need them."
My knees tremble.
"Victoria? Oh hell no. She’s an okay fuck. Good to relieve yourself with when the need arises. No, I must go. I told you—there’s going to be a wedding at Dragunov Village."
My stomach flips.
"You’re just upset I didn’t ask you. Of course, I love you. But you better start behaving yourself."
He hangs up.
I can’t move. My heart is a shattered mess beating against bone and betrayal. Everything he said—all the promises, all the heat, the way he held me—it was just another layer of lies. I’m a pawn. A fucking pawn.
Sabrina was right. These people are insane.
Then fury crashes in like a tidal wave. Red-hot, consuming. My head clears, and instinct kicks in. Quietly, I grab my clothes, pulling them on. My hands find his jacket. His wallet. His keys. Fucking rich people leave their shit lying around like it’s nothing. I need a phone. Mine’s gone—of course it is. He must’ve taken it.
I hear another creak.
Shit.
He’s still on the phone. I slip out the door and into the night. I know these woods. My dad made damn sure I could navigate them blindfolded. Sam and Sabrina trained me, probably because deep down they knew I’d need it.
The Russians think they own me. Fuck them.
I pull the oversized jacket tight around me and head toward the road. There’s a gas station about five miles from the cabin. I don’t stop. My breath clouds in the cold and my legs burn. Adrenaline mixes with pregnancy hormones—I don’t even know what’s real anymore—and I push harder.
The lights of the gas station come into view. I stumble inside, legs shaking, and ask the clerk if I can use the phone. He hands it over.
I dial a number I’ve memorized since I was ten.
"Hello?" the voice on the other end answers.
"Uncle Nik. It’s me. Tara."
"Sweetheart." There’s a pause. His voice softens. "How are you?"
"I’m in trouble. The kind that needs your help."
Silence.
"Where are you?"
I give him the gas station address.
"I’ll be there in ten. Do you remember Sol’s training?"
"Yes."
Ten minutes later, a black Range Rover pulls into the back lot, out of camera range. I duck low as Nik walks inside.
He flirts with the young women at the counter, grabs a box of condoms, and tosses a charming grin their way.
"Thanks. Bit embarrassing, running out at my age."
They giggle. Of course they do.
He gets in the car, locks the doors, and pulls away.
"Condoms? Really?"
"Distraction," he says. "They’ll be too busy giggling to remember I was here."
"You’re pushing seventy."
"Watch it, cheeky monkey."
We drive in silence for a few minutes. Then he says, "Okay. Tell me what the fuck is going on."
I spill everything. From Ruslan to the files, to the call I just overheard. By the time we pull into his estate, I’m exhausted. The guards at the gate salute him. He gives quick orders for extra vigilance.
"Is Galina here?" I ask.
"London, with her grandson."
I sigh in relief.
"We’re going to talk," he says. "Then I’m getting my doctor out here. We’ll find out once and for all if you’re pregnant."
I nod, too tired to argue.
"Your mom and sister know anything?"
"No. Please don’t tell them."
"Your secret’s safe with me. But I’ll have to check on Sam and Clyde. If they let Romanov near the cabin, we’ve got a problem."
I want to defend them. But I don’t. Because I don’t know who to trust anymore. None of them are my friends. Not Gavriil. Not Irina. Not even Konstantin.
"Did you know about me?" I ask.
He’s quiet, then he nods. "I did. But your parents made us promise not to tell you. It wasn’t my place."
"I get it," I whisper. "Can you tell me now?"
He studies me. "Tomorrow. After you rest."
I hug him. "Thank you. At least I still have you."
"Always."
As I walk to the guest room, he calls out, "Remember the protocol."
"I do."
In the shower, I let the water wash away the tears. But it can’t wash away the betrayal.
Ruslan Dragunov fooled me. Fucked me. Lied to me. Used me.
And I will never let it happen again.